Compared to theirs, his touch should barely register, if at all--and yet it does.

They don't know what he means. They're having trouble thinking, suddenly.

Lemm's hand is tiny speck of warmth, the shape of his claws spread across their palm no matter how little space it takes up. They want to hold him, like they did Grimm, but they're--they--they're being absurd, they know it, but still--

One claw. Their smallest. Carefully shifting, creeping closer, easy to see coming, easy to get away from. Coming to curl around his back.